


Zeropoint Calibrations

by messier51



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, artificer!dean, supernatural ua
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 03:21:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1729196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messier51/pseuds/messier51
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monster and demons are no match for the proper (magical) tools and knowledge. UA where Dean grew up apprenticed to Master Artificer Bobby Singer. Everything was going fairly well when the angels showed up...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zeropoint Calibrations

**Author's Note:**

> Artificer (for the purposes of this work) is defined as a skilled craftsperson who creates (forms) magical artifacts. The dates are wrong, some things have been altered, but for the most part this is a universe alteration.

Dean  flips the  [magnifying visor](http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.aaaindustrialsupply.com%2FDonegan-DA-5-OptiVISOR-Magnifying-Visor.aspx&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNH9qTrYP9Vu77Qn11jzXlzhY0epyg)  back up over his head after tightening the last tiny bolt on a new ( and improved!)  EMF meter.  T he feel of the pieces coming together between his fingers tells Dean more than his eyes ever would , and he doesn’t need the magnification to see the parts. Dean knows better than to tempt Bobby Singer’s ghost to come back  again just to yell at him for “not taking proper work etiquette and traditions seriously, idjit.”

There are no clocks down here, but Dean can already tell it’s later than he’d meant to stay.  There’ s almost no light coming in through the  tiny  basement windows lined with finely meshed lead chickenwire along the ceiling. He probably spent too long fiddling with the zero point adjustments, but he thinks this one  just might work  around high powered lines now ...

Anyway, he’s probably already late for dinner and Jess will brush it off (it’s not like they’ll have planned on eating dinner on time; it’s not like he ever gets there when he’s said he will) but Sam will glare at him for a while. Beats eating irradiated frozen shit interspersed with pockets of molten lava. He’s not entirely sure if reworking the microwave would make it better or worse, although he’s considered exorcising it too. It feels too odd to get rid of anything since Bobby’s death, even if the house and the workshop are  his  now. 

Before climbing back up to the real world, Dean makes sure to glance around the basement lab. He t icks off all the items on the mental checklist , j ust like Bobby taught him . N one of the powertools are plugged in, there aren’t any volatiles left out, and everything is where it belongs (more or less).  He stares for a bit at the block of folded metal in the corner before hitting the  [double-throw knife switch](http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.urbanremainschicago.com%2Fproducts%2Fdevices-components%2Fantiquated-electrical-devices%2Fc-1920-s-nortown-theater-brenograph-double-throw-switches-with-insulating-plate.html&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNHBviJaoZa5Ey8c4RYg4-RTlb-KCg) and opening the heavy lead-lined door. 

His masterwork can wait until there’s less work to be done; it’s not like he’s in any hurry to prove anything to anyone or set up his own workshop now. 

After the hissing lock sound of the workshop’s seal, Dean runs his hand along the groove where solid iron wall meets lead-lined door. The seal is both physically and magically tight, it feels coiled and almost hot along the edge of his thumbnail.  He disconnects the  [grounding wire](http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.uline.com%2FProduct%2FDetail%2FH-935%2FGrounders-Static-Control-Equipment%2F6-Grounding-Wrist-Strap%3Fpricode%3DWY626%26gadtype%3Dpla%26id%3D70661135002%26gclid%3DCKqQlarum74CFeMF7AodFDIAQQ&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNEKhalXOVSd3AgemRBgPgUf6myAjA) from his wrist and hangs it up next to the  [apron](http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.riogrande.com%2FProduct%2FFlame-Resistant-Jewelers-Apron%2F113696%3FPos%3D3&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNGjoGJD6F7lF3JSD_u83WhCfViTIw) he didn’t even bother wearing today, and the coveralls that Bobby’d worn every single day in the lab that he couldn’t bring himself to move from their hook. Static electricity would wreak havoc with the finer electronic adjustments in an EMF meter,  sur e, but the reason their weapons and gear  were  the best , was because they’d figured out every single trick to maximize magical  potential in forming .  A decent chunk of literature on the  artifice forming , as Bobby put it, “either aims to mislead and completely befuddle, or was written by utter blockheads.” In a finished product, fancy or intricate the physical spellwork provides much less power and integrity  than precision and accounting for every single bit of energy that goes into a piece.  A stray shock can upset the entire magical energy of a piece; it’s much better to wear the damn bracelet.

Although there had been that time he’d tried to convince his old mentor that working naked would achieve the same results without having to wear any funky jewelry--maybe even better, without the materials they were wearing even. The withering look he’d  gotten in return… hah.

Dean’s read all the old journals Bobby’d squirreled away in his giant personal library. He’s a little envious of the bygone grandmasters. There are rumors that Samuel Colt had had a magic touch, a demon deal, or some other boon. The truth by comparison is simple and boring. In the era before ubiquitous radio broadcast, Colt’s setup needed no lead chickenwire.  Without electromagnetic interference, an  artificer needed only to keep his workspace clear of any immediate contaminants to form the sort of artifacts Dean dreams of creating in his dungeon. Living in a world where he wouldn’t have to  ensconce himself in the basement to work would be nice . Dean l ikes his cell phone a little too much to start building a time machine yet.

Granted, he could probably move out to BFE Montana in a valley somewhere to avoid long-range signals. Somewhere away from all the cell towers. Except he’s never living that far from Sam ever again. Stanford was awesome for Sam. Stanford was awesome for both of them, if Dean’s honest with hims elf. He’s ecstatic Sam and Jess are living here now. And he’s  r eally  got to get cleaned up if he expects to get to dinner at a reasonable time. 

Dean stops at the garage to switch the lights off. He’d gotten the early start this morning that he’d needed to put finishing touches on the brass clockwork mechanisms for a new scrying compass. And redoing the compass’s lid with the lathe before polishing. And anointing the pieces. And painting the lid. And of course, then he had to leave it to dry. His stomach reminds him that he’d also not eaten since before then, and if he hurries up he will  get to dinner faster . 

Scrubbing his face and hands, plus the liberal application of deodorant, should be enough to forego a shower . Dean’s vision phases out as he scrubs out a spot of black oil from on the back of one hand and flecks of ochre rust free from the creases in both of them and under his fingernails. When he comes to, the water running down the drain is no longer reddish brown and his hands are raw. If he never has to wash blood off his hands again, it will still be too soon.

Dean groans along with his stomach all the way to his closet, throws on his cleanest smelling jeans and a mostly unwrinkled shirt, and is out the door in two minutes. 

 

*

 

Sam’s scowl and open arms greet him at the door, along with a vaguely burnt smell of broccoli. When Jess’ loud voice drifts in from their back patio, explaining that they’re having grilled burgers and corn on the cob, Dean shoots his brother a look but doesn’t question it. 

“It’s a nice night for a picnic,” Sam shrugs. 

“Uh huh. Smells awesome in here.” 

Sam grabs a stack of papers off their entryway bench and starts rifling through them as Dean makes his way from front door to back.Tracing his fingers along the very top of the  [wainscoting](http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Ffaceplane.com%2Fwp-content%2Fuploads%2F2014%2F03%2FInstalling-wainscoting-With-chandeliers.jpg&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNF4Q4TzqjZX7Ad4l3ERRysRp9hh_w) in the hallway, Dean can barely feel the subtle shifts at his fingertips. Each panel covers a different spell: a blood sigil for defense, a salt line for protection, a set of herbal seasonings that will either keep the house relatively hidden or else make some fairly good spaghetti sauce.  He’d enjoyed putting this hallway together, each piece of the house’s soul fitting together like a puzzle, and each spell’s primary aura peeking out slightly over the panel’s molding, reaching up to where his fingers comfortably hover as he walks through.  In the end , Dean’s just another binding in the house’s protection,  another piece of this home’s soul. 

None of the spells have been altered or sprung in the past week--ten days? since he’d been last. The wooden floor could still use a buff and wax. 

“A-hah!”  The voice behind him  precedes  a stack of  papers shoved  unceremoniously into his nose. Attached to the pile of mail is the arm of a giant brother who managed to sneak up behind Dean while he was lost in contemplation. 

“Man, why do you even still have mail that arrives here anyway? You have your own house now. Get it fucking forwarded.” 

Peeling the envelopes away from his face, the first few are junkmail of the various required varieties. There are a few advertisement flyers, a postcard of political propaganda, and a suggestion about what sort of life insurance he might be interested in (hah).  One envelope he can’t tell what’s inside, although it’s most likely a credit card application. They haven’t needed to scam a credit card company in a while, but he hangs onto it out of habit. The last looks promising--handwritten, but no return address, to Master D. Winchester. He saves that one too, and makes a mental note to let the letter’s author know that he’s still not  technically  a master, so the title’s a pretty shit way to start the conversation. 

“Merry Christmas. Don’t ever say I never gave you nuthin’.” 

If the couple piece of junk mail smack Sam in the face a little hard? Well, Dean figures,  he  started it. 

Dinner’s tasty--the burgers are a little overcooked but the corn is obviously from the farmstand off 115 and it’s amazing. The broccoli probably was too… oh well.  Dean takes in all the food and family he can before the mosquitoes come out for dessert. 

Sam and Dean crack open beers to drink while they wash dishes after dinner. Jess smacks both their asses before plopping herself on the couch to watch  [the new GI Joe Movie](http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.joblo.com%2Fnewsimages1%2FGIJoe2postersmall.jpg&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNGsTUSXEWu6vyOAbZAQWIgZSfYVLQ) again  on Netflix. They finish their beers in the garage, sitting on the hood of Sam’s  [blue ‘69 Shelby Mustang](http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fstatic.cargurus.com%2Fimages%2Fsite%2F2008%2F03%2F31%2F09%2F41%2F1969_ford_mustang_shelby_gt500-pic-39943.jpeg&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNEtKQ31XxUGqRWq6aHv4lDr0NdfQQ). She’s a good car. She’s not as awesome as Dean’s black ‘67 Impala. And from the hitching tremble in the car’s safety spells he feels as he drags his free hand across the chrome line on the front fender, he should take a look at those. Sam probably hasn’t changed the oil recently either. 

“I didn’t mean it earlier, what I said about your mail. This is your home too, you don’t even need to live in that mausoleum as if you’re still catering to the old man’s ghost. You can stay here with us, or we could get our own place--not that we’re not super gra--” 

“Dude, chill. I get it. I’m not gonna move back, calm down. The house likes you and Jess, I couldn’t kick you out and I wouldn’t want to. You belong here. This is home.” It was way more convenient for everyone involved, for Dean to just stay at Bobby’s. His. His workplace was there and all his stuff.  This home, the one they’d built, it’s felt like a safe place since Sam and Jess have been living there. If Dean closes his eyes and concentrates, the slow wash of resounding intent feels wrapped in the timbre of Sam and Jess’s love for each other and the house; the spell has changed significantly since he moved out. Their relationship is echoed in the house’s tranquility ,  just as it echoes of his own fierceness. Dean is never going to cast spell networks complicated enough to start making their own decisions ever again.

This house, he supposes, is more of a master work than his half-crafted demon-killing sword. He’d never thought about it, with all the help he’d gotten from Sam, from Bobby, from the kid next door who’d helped him paint in return for some cash. He thinks that something about how the house’s spell is protective, instead of the sword’s aggressive nature feels right to him. Maybe he won’t chew out his mysterious letter writer right off. 

“Besides, you don’t wanna make Jess move while she’s pregnant, do you?” 

“She’s not.” Sam’s face is startled; he doesn’t know. Come to think of it, Jess might not know-- she would’ve  told him right off if she did--fuck. “You used your spooky aura reading on her did you!” 

“Nah. But, bro. Burning broccoli? I mean, she’s not the best cook ever but she’s not  that  bad. And how many times  has  she watched that movie now? There’s something up.” 

“Those are  the worst  pieces of evidence you’ve  ever  spouted at me about  anything.  And that’s including that ‘Mystery Spot’ thing Bobby had us check out basically just to get you to take a vacation.” That was pretty funny, actually . Except for the part where he’d almost died . The rest though--good times. “What kind of mail do you still have sent here, anyway?” 

Dean accepts the segue with a roll of his eyes but no verbal complaint. “Dunno. One of ‘em’s a credit card thing I think-” 

“You’re not still doing that are you? Bobby left you some-” 

“Nope. Was gonna look at it before tossing it. This other one--” 

He took the folded up envelopes out of his back pocket, extricating and handing over the credit card application to Sam. “No return address, just sent to me. Drumroll?” 

“The suspense is killing me.” 

“Maybe if you sounded a little less bored it’d kill you quicker, put you out of your misery.” 

Opening the envelope’s seal broke a small sealing spell; he should’ve been paying more attention. Sobering up a bit at the thought, and patting down the envelope, Dean can only feel an underlying current of, well, really odd but latent power.  Stochastic  wind on fingerpads, and almost the sense of flying. The only spell wound up to spring was the one on the seal, which has dissipated quickly enough that he doesn’t know what the details of if were. He can guess; someone know’s he’s opened the envelope. Simple sigil, unreadable now. Not much to it.  
The paper is markedly normal looking for its odd-feeling aura. 

 

 

 

> July 2, 2014
> 
> Master Dean Winchester  
>  Singer Salvage and Artificieri  
>  ℅ Mr. Sam Winchester  
>  803 N 9th Aves  
>  Sioux Falls, South Dakota 57104
> 
> Dear Master Winchester,
> 
> My team is planning a gated community of sorts as part of our initiative to improve the world. We are looking for a technical craftsperson to build the front gate.
> 
> The safety and protection of humanity is of utmost importance to those of us from Heaven under the mandate of God. This community would serve as a protection and a defense to the entire planet. 
> 
> With that in mind, we would like to inquire whether you would accept our invitation to render services for this project as our contracted artificer. Blueprints (overview enclosed) , instructions, materials, and compensation will all be provided. One of our representatives will contact you post haste with further information and the proposed contract. 
> 
> Yours most Sincerely, 
> 
>  
> 
> Zachariah Adler  
>  Heaven 
> 
> Enclosure

 

“Oooh, Enclosed!”    
“Really, Dean? Firefly?”

The attached pages show the intricate details of a fully interlocking etched and articulated sigil gears embedded into the mechanisms of a great set of doors. They show the locking mechanisms and the simple superficial spells that will be placed on the outer layers. They show the mock up of the connections to a magistatic fence the gate will be welded into.  They don’t show the serious spellwork that Dean knows will be necessary to hold the entire gate together as a unit, to run it as a system, and he makes a mental note to ask about that.

Dean wants to do it. The letter’s an odd way to get contacted for a job, but hey, he’s not picky. Even the house never had spells this complicated, and he knows some of those sigils are new. He’s already making lists in his head,  lost in visualizing the blueprints made real, already preparing to do the job when Sam’s giant frog hand intrudes into his seeing space. 

“Yo. Earth to the space cadet. You with us?”

“Yeah. Us?” But he knows, there’s a person standing by the door. Maybe not a person. But it looks like a person, and almost feels like one. He also feels--Dean rubs his thumb over the pads of his other fingers in remembrance--like the paper. 

“Hello Dean.” 

“Who are you?” He shouldn’t ask. He knows this is the one the spell belonged to. This is the one the paper belongs to. He wants to run his hands along this man’s trenchcoat just to be sure, but he doesn’t have to.  
“My name is Castiel. I’m the representative of heaven here to ensure you do your job. I’m sure you’ve read the letter by now.” 

“Representative of….. heaven? Like, in the same way that demons are representatives of hell or am I missing something here?”

“I’m an angel of the lord.” 

Dean huffs out a small breath. “Sammy, shut your mouth, you’re gonna start collecting flies.” He turns to the  ‘angel,’  “O kay , Mr. Holy Tax Accountant, what’s the deal with this job? I don’t really care whether you're from heaven, or from the 7-11 across the street. I want to build this--” he holds up the paper with the sketch “--but I’m gonna need tools and materials, and some slush funds for y’know, food and stuff. What’s the deal with this contract thing?” 

“Dean,” Sam interrupts, because he’s rude like that, “it’s late. Don’t you think you should conduct your business with  an angel  somewhere other than in my  garage at midnight ?” He doesn’t care that Dean’s “working” at midnight (it’s only 10:30 anyway); he wants the possibly-supernatural being out of his house. Dean got ahead of himself. 

“Sorry man,” Dean turns to look at the stranger standing awkwardly apart from anything else in the garage,  “I mean, where are my manners. How about you meet me at my place tomorrow. I can give you directions. We’ll do this during normal business hours instead of gossiping over my brother’s car.” 

“I don’t need directions, but we need to begin work right away. This is very important.” 

“It wasn’t important enough to call me instead of waiting around for me to open a letter that was delivered--what, a week ago? two?--it can wait til tomorrow.” 

Castiel opens up his mouth, closes it, and opens it up again. Dean looks to Sam, who’d grabbed the empty beer bottles from the floor and looks to be headed back towards the kitchen. 

“Very well. I’ll see you tomorrow, Dean.” 

Dean looks back to Castiel, thinking to shake the guy’s hand, but he’s also disappeared. Dean follows the sound of his brother rinsing out the beer bottles instead. 

“So, what exactly is our stance on angels?” 

“Did he leave?” The look on Sam’s face says that he hadn’t come through this way to get out, so Dean’s not entirely sure which way the guy left. Maybe angels can phase through walls? That’d be kinda cool. He grasps at the thought of sigils and mechanisms that could solidify an otherwise open wall, like the microwave sheeting in his workspace’s ceiling. He’ll have to see if--

“Huh? I--yeah. He’s gone. I think I’m gonna call up Pam, see if she can do a read on this paper for me. It’s got the same vibe that guy had. Maybe his name’ll give her something to work on until then too.” 

“Sounds good. Just, y’know, I’ve never read anything about angels. Maybe there’s something at Bobby’s? We should check to be sure. But, wow.” 

“I know right. This is going to be so awesome.” 

**Author's Note:**

> There might end up being more but please do not count any chickens. 
> 
> Thanks Cee, April, and Scorn <3


End file.
